Activa(ting) talk

Imagine a day comes when you make an entry in your gratitude journal that reads like this: “Today, I was able to place an order with bigbasket.” It was truly a miracle. While making the online payment, I half-expected to see the familiar message that has been popping up on my screen all week, “All slots full. Please try again later.” But my order went through. After trying for nine effing days, my order went through. Delivery day was the day after tomorrow.

I was so excited, I called mom to share the news. Then for the next twenty-four hours, I kept staring at my order list, mesmerized. So what if they have stopped supplying meat and fish and eggs? So what if only about 60% if the items were available? So what if they showed delivery time between 6 am to 3 pm, which meant waiting in a limbo for the doorbell to ring and not being able to get to work in the morning? In forty-eight hours, I would have all these items in my fridge. The fridge that was starting to look so empty these days. I never thought that the biggest joy in my life would be to wait in anticipation for two kilo apples and two large watermelons to arrive.

On delivery day, the guy called and told me that the company has asked him not do a door delivery. I would have to go meet him at the main gate and get my stuff. The same order list that gave me a dopamine high not too long ago was now going to give me nightmares. Imagine lugging two kilo of apples, one kilo of pomegranates, two large watermelons, four liters of milk, one kilo of bananas, half a kilo of cucumbers, and other such heavy things from the main gate to home. No worries, I told myself that in this 42 Celsius heat, at 10 in the morning when the sun was already high up my head, I am off for my army-training. The kind of training they show you in movies where you carry heavy bags on your back and crouch and crawl on the ground. I can do this!

One look at the stuff and I knew that I cannot do this. In a bad attempt to use the poor defenseless woman card, I made a sad face and said to myself, loud enough for the security guards to hear, “No problem, I will make four rounds in this heat to lug everything!”

One of the security guards took pity on me and asked me to hand him all the stuff. He had a scooter (Activa) parked nearby. On a side note, I did not know what an Activa is when I moved here. Someone asked me if I have an Activa and I told her that I now eat Amul Masti yogurt (and wondered how she knew about Activia, the brand of yogurt I ate in the US). Anyway, the security guard was nice enough to drop my heavy bags home. That army-training I was fantasizing about never happened.

I told this story to my family on the phone, amid much gasps and oo-maas and ahaares from mom and grandma. Of all the things, my dad asked me somewhat suspiciously, “Did you sit behind him on the scooter?”

“I can walk just fine,” I shouted at him. Ridiculous!

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Thinking out of the dabba

The dabba (boxed lunch) is back in my life after more than two decades and brought many memories of school. For the last 12 years, I cooked my own breakfast and lunch and dinner every day. I ate cold lunch at my desk or microwaved food made the previous day. I continued the tradition here because I love cooking my meals and have major control issues with anyone taking over my house or kitchen.

And then, the knight in shining armor aka the dabba-waala showed up with his contact number and rang the doorbell. I still ignored him for a month. But the day I missed lunch because of deadlines and ended up chewing on raw bell peppers, I decided, enough is enough. I called the dabba-walla.

Sure enough, he was right on time with my lunch, freshly cooked and piping hot. Rice. Ruti. Dal. Curry. I had forgotten what it feels like to have a freshly cooked, piping hot meal delivered at work or home in a proper stainless steel dabba, sans cheap plastic. The food was heavenly. I had tears in my eyes.

Later that evening, when the dabba-waala came to pick up his box, he started gossiping in true Indian style. This must be his idea of bonding with the customers to make lifelong business connections. I didn't even ask him to sit, but he never took the cue. He stood in my office and gossiped away. I learned more about my colleagues through him than I would have cared to. I now know whose husband emigrated to Canada, what does the Dean like to eat every day, whose parents are visiting this summer, and where are so-and-so currently road-tripping. He tempered privacy in smoking hot oil and threw it out of the window.

No one who comes in contact with you in India will leave without telling you something about someone you did not need to know. Every time the driver picks me up from the airport, I learn which of my colleagues are currently traveling and what airline. This is so India! 

Lunch: 80 INR/$1.14

Gossip: FREE

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Cut to the chase

I am in the middle of a haircut, chatting up with the guy. He tells me that students get 25% off and faculty get 30% off because faculty are more likely to go for more number of services since they can afford it. I am impressed with his business model, a far cry from my you-earn-less-you-get-more-discount way of thinking. This guy is quite entertaining. Ran away from home after 10th grade because his family was against his interest in being a stylist. He didn't mistake me to be a student (possibly because he was holding my graying hair and looking at them up close like Ma Kali holds those decapitated heads). One of those guys who, instead of giving compliments, gave me a harsh dose of reality- Madam, your scalp is dry, your T-zone is oily. It did wonders to my self-confidence!

I asked him where he gets his hair cut and styled, and with great pride, he told me that he cuts and styles his own hair. I am impressed, I even crack a bad joke that thank god, he is not a doctor. Things seemed to be going well, this guy seemed to know his stuff. I ask him where he learned to do all this, where he got his training, and he drops the bomb.

"Madam, by watching YouTube videos!"

Imagine my shock. With the glasses gone from my myopic eyes, my vision was blurry anyway and I had no idea what he was doing. My head started spinning a little faster, and as he held my hair in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other, I sent a silent prayer to god for some divine intervention so that I am able to go to class later today without having to hide my face.

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A fin(garlic)king tale of crazy things I’d do for good food

Over the years, I've taken many things back home. Fancy chocolates. Interesting kitchen gadgets.

This time, I took home two pounds of unpeeled garlic! Yes, you heard me right.

My visits to Kolkata mean lots of good, rich food. I sometimes eat two breakfasts or two lunches on the same day. And all that food means my grandma chipping her nails while peeling a lot of garlic. If you have seen the almost two-dimensional, stick-thin garlic pods in India, you'd know how hard peeling garlic is. On the other hand, the garlic pods in the US are fatter than almonds and walnuts. The best thing I could bring home was garlic (my idea, completely).

Naturally, people at the US airport were not happy, although they should not care, since I was leaving, not entering the country. They eyed the garlic with a lot of suspicion. They ran it through scanners, tested with litmus lookalike papers. They might have wanted to ask me to chew some of them too. In their long experience of all the weird things they have seen people transport, the humble, innocuous garlic had never made the list. They did not ask me anything directly, but were holding up the line and had mobilized a tiny army of people to figure out what the hell was all this garlic doing here?

“I am attending the holy garlic festival in India this year. Have you heard about it?”

I got skeptical looks.

“You should look it up. Very pious festival. They ward off evil spirits.” As I said this, I held out my hands in front of my eyes to do a nomoshkaar.

And so, they let me go without any more questions, and off I flew thousands of miles with all the garlic.

The amount of good food I got to eat increased manifold as a result, and it might not be entirely my imagination. It did turn out to be a holy garlic festival in India after all. My own, holy garlic food festival at home.

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Week 7: A clean sink and a made bed

Read other posts with the label: 52 small changes

Waking up to a clean kitchen sink really makes me happy, and so does coming home to a clean, made bed. So I make sure I do both every day. 

Long back, I came across this talk about the value of making your bed and really liked it. It is the joy of accomplishing at least one task every day. I know that throughout the day, I will have many triggers, things that will stress me out but I cannot control. There will be multiple rejections coming my way- papers and proposals rejected, decisions that do not go in my favor. I do not have control over those things. However, I do have control over the little things that I can do for myself.

For example, waking up to a sink with dirty dishes puts me off. Cleaning dishes is not my most favorite activity, and that is not what I want to start my day with. So no matter how tired I am, I try to finish off the dishes before I go to sleep. For this, I have to portion out the cooked food into little containers and store them in the fridge. I have to pack my lunch for the next day. I have to clean the kitchen counter. Once I have done all that, I try to finish the dishes, leaving them to dry overnight. That way, the next morning, I can start my day finding a clean, dry cup waiting for me to make myself coffee of milk. It saves myself useful morning minutes too. 

Similarly, at the end of a long day, it feels calming to come back to a made bed. It makes me feel grateful for having a home and being able to stay warm and comfortable. After a long day at work, I'd want to be nowhere else but home. So every morning before I leave home, I make sure to leave it in a condition that I would long to come back to it.

As a kid, I used to do other chores every night to prep for school the next day. I used to clean and polish my black leather shoes. And I used to organize my school bag. I especially miss polishing my shoes every night. 

When the bigger things are going wrong, I find comfort in these little things going right. Waking up to find the dishes clean and dry, coming home to a clean bed, and packing my lunch with me every day instead of eating outside. 

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What are you looking forward to today?

I had a dental surgery this morning where they implanted titanium screws in my gum. It is a part of routine dental procedure that has lasted me for more than a year now. Naturally, I was scared shitless. I have realized that I am my most insecure self when my health is suffering. From living alone to traveling alone, I start questioning everything. All my spunk and crazy enthusiasm for life goes out of the window, I just binge on negative self-talk.

Anyway, I survived the three pokes they made to find the vein on my right arm (the nurse even asked me if knew what arm they used last year, as if I would remember), the grogginess due to anesthesia, a couple of stitches and some bloodshed, as well as getting high on hydrocodone. I decided to stay home and rest for the day. I kept getting in and out of a semi-state of nausea and half-wakefulness all day. In the evening, I got to see the beautiful colors of the sky after sunset from my apartment, something that I do not get to see from office.

I also called grandma and told her that I would not be able to talk, so she should talk to me. She is quite a chatterbox, always high on the little joys of life, and had quite a bit to say. The thing about talking to family is that there is often a prescriptive syllabus of conversations they keep falling back on, not because it is useful, but because it is easy small talk. Have you cooked? What have you eaten? Is it still cold? Are you taking precautions while crossing the road? When are you visiting? We miss you. How will you manage things on your own? Indians will never learn to keep their environment clean (a broad generalization lacking data-based evidence). Rickshaw fares are going up. Vegetable prices are going up (anyone heard of the word “inflation”?)

I really do not care about such small, usually negative talk. A lot of things around us might be wrong, but if I only focused on the negatives and kept ranting about how cold it is in winter and how expensive healthcare is (I just shelled $3.2k for the dental procedure this morning even after good insurance coverage, you do the math now), I will never move forward in life. There is Chetan and there is Chitra. It is my choice to decide what I spend my time reading (I know the difference because I have read both before making up my mind). Although preferably, I would rather read Lahiri's short fiction. I am a sucker for short stories, in particular.

So I asked grandma a simple question-

Grandma, it is Tuesday morning in Kolkata. What are you looking forward to today?

Grandma was flustered. I am sure no one has asked her this question before. So I asked her to think again and repeated the question.

She had to come up with something since I would not let go. So she said,

“There is so much work to do. The domestic help will arrive soon. Your father will leave for office soon. The vegetables need to be chopped. Lot of work today.”

I knew she was dodging my question. So very patiently, I explained the question again. I asked that amid all her chores that she just described, what is one thing she is looking forward to today? And she again repeated about how at her age, life is monotonous and her knees hurt and she will die soon, so there is nothing to look forward to. So I told her that everyone of us will die, sooner or later, and she is not special. I told her that the response to my question could be anything, any small, but genuine thing. To which, she said that she will be happy when I visit her next.

I once again knew what she was doing. Putting the onus of her happiness on others (which is attachment and conditional, but not love). I told her that I have no plans of visiting, but she could take some time and think about my question. This time, she thought. And her answer warmed my heart.

She said that she is looking forward to the open doors today.

Kolkata is in the throes of winter, but the weather is slowly warming up. She is a balcony person, she loves standing at the balcony and watching people go around with their life. People headed to work, children headed to school, vegetable and fruit sellers going around in their rickety trolley rickshaws selling stuff. She said that given the winters, the balcony door has been closed and she has missed watching people. Today is the first day it has warmed up a bit, and after her chores, she is looking forward to an open balcony door, sunlight streaming in and she spending time in the balcony. It was endearing. And I think I had finally succeeded in my mission.

She asked me the same question next. I said that it was already evening for me, and I had a rough day at the doctor’s, but tomorrow, I am looking forward to staying home for a specific reason. My apartment gets a lot of sunlight on days when the sun shows up. So I am looking forward to seeing how the sun lights up my living room and kitchen in the morning and my bedroom in the evening. I no longer have a grand view of a fjord and cruise ships the way I did from my home in Germany, but I live in a very nice neighborhood with beautiful homes, tall trees, and I am looking forward to a day of sunshine at home (pun unintended).

I then asked her to write down one small thing that she would be looking forward to everyday in her diary. I don’t know if she would, but it would be a wonderful read if she does. I think I will do the same, not for social media and Facebook propaganda, but just for me.

The thing is, there is a lot of bad in the world. But there is also a lot of good in the world. What you focus on makes you who you are/become. Often, when you ask someone how they are, they will usually reply with a lot of whining, like “আর বলিসনা, গায়ে ব্যাথা, পায়ে ব্যাথা।“ (Literal translation: Don’t ask. Pain in the body. Pain in the legs). I do it too. I don’t think people do it consciously. They do it because the others do it. Many people view the ongoing of the world as an outsider, an onlooker in third person. However, we are not outsiders to the world, we are what makes up the world. We are the world.

Today, I am thankful that I am able to afford healthcare in the US (I know that many cannot), that I was able to rest and enjoy my home (which does not happen often), and that I was able to chat with my grandma at leisure (she is my only living grandparent now). What are you looking forward to today?

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A forking big problem

A fork that was stolen from the office kitchen recently was the reason for a lot of hullabaloo. The owner of the fork was inconsolable, being very attached to personal things. An impromptu committee was set up to brainstorm the solution. Should the kitchen door be locked at all times henceforth? Should someone immediately remove plates and cutlery after rinsing? Should one put up a sign outside saying access to the kitchen is for office employees only and not for students? Should one mark one’s personal things with a nail polish to deter anyone from stealing? My guess is that a student during evening class was looking for a microwave to heat up food, conveniently took the fork nearby and forgot to return it. In any case, the victim got into an emotional outburst and said,

“This is unforgivable. This is the second time my fork has been stolen!”

“In how much time?” I was so proud that my long training as a researcher was showing results and I was finally asking the right questions in life.

The victim looked up at the ceiling, made some calculations and said, “In 5 years.”

I wonder if this would be considered a statistically significant problem anymore.

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The need for Plan B

People often stress the need of having a plan in life. I have gotten away without a plan many times. What helped me is having a Plan B instead of an overall plan.

I timed my return to Germany from Kolkata to have my US paperwork ready. I would have been in Berlin this week getting a visa, and getting ready to move. But that did not happen. The paperwork is delayed and I must wait. Had I known, I would have spent more time in Kolkata. So what do I do now?

I spent the day staring at Google Maps until I had a plan. Sunday 5 am, I sleepily hopped on a long-distance train, and continued to sleep in the cramped seats until my neck was almost dislocated. I got on the road for a week, traveling in trains and seeing new countries. Hungary. Slovakia. Poland. Close your eyes and touch the European map and you could be wherever you please.

This was not even a part of my conscious until Friday, let alone be a part of my plan. But since Plan A is taking forever, I decided to make the best use of my time. And why not? I brought my work with me. I am seeing places I have no spiritual connection with and have no reason to see otherwise. The hostel in Budapest has an interesting balcony lining the inner perimeter of the building (If you have seen Julie Delpy's "2 days in Paris", this building looks exactly like that). A good looking young man was on the phone at the other end of the balcony for a long time this morning, wearing nothing but his boxers, unaware that he had a curious spectator. Imagine waking up to a view like that. Ma would have said, "Why are you spending money, you could have lazed around at home.” She has a point, but this might be a good plan to have at age eighty.

From perfect jobs to understanding partners, healthy and well-behaved children, efficient cars and cozy homes, we want to have it all. But life isn't perfect, mine far from it. I've set my heart on things that never happened, giving way to things instead I had never considered. Doing a PhD was my Plan B. Moving to Germany was my Plan B. Learning to drive was my Plan B (I was so scared that I resisted it for years). Learning to travel alone was my Plan B. It all worked out great. If life had been predictable, I’d be a resident of the Bay Area in California whose husband works in one of the software companies, owning a townhouse, driving a Lexus, rearing American children, taking them to piano and ballet lessons and celebrating Durga Puja with the fellow “probashi” or non-resident Bengalis, whining about how dirty India is and how corrupt the politicians are. But my life is not predictable, far from it thankfully. I can be homeless and jobless in a day. I can also plan a road trip to any European country in a day. My life is that steroid-driven. So Plan B for me is absolutely possible. Why possible, it is the Plan Bs that have kept me going, making my life interesting and different from the rest.

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Knowing a city

Today, I spent a few hours by the banks of river Hooghly, and then took the local train from Princep Ghat. In those few hours, I saw more of life and everyday living than I have seen in the air-conditioned floors of City Center, South City Mall, Mani Square, or any other mall. People buying and selling. Lovers holding hands. Buyers and sellers negotiating. People playing cards in groups. Devotees offering prayers in the temples by the banks. Families enjoying the sunset on a boat. Friends taking selfies in groups. Commuters waiting for the train. Life in tiny shacks under the Howrah Bridge. I also saw so many photographers with their expensive cameras and gears taking shots of life around the river. Life continued to happen for people as it does everyday while the smell of jhaal muri and phuchka wafted in the air. If you really want to understand even a little bit of a city, and this is true for every city, you need to move out of the usual places and find your own lanes and bylanes where everyday stories happen. And you need to take the train. And walk till you are ready to drop dead.

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Fruits of labor

Imagine a life where the only responsibility you have, even if for a few weeks, is to buy seasonal fruits from the market while returning home. This started when I got my first job in 2005. Although earning, I was not expected to contribute anything at home. So I started buying fruits on my way back, as much as I desired for the entire family (although I always ate the lion's share). Kalojaam (blackberry), jaamrul (Java apple), lichu, safeda, you name it. I would happily come home, two large bags of fruits in hand. With my meager salary, I had never felt richer.

The trend continues. No matter whether I am in a bus or taxi, I always get off at the local market to buy fruits while returning home. I get on my haunches and hand-pick fruits. This time, I spotted a particular woman seller in between a bunch of men. Being appreciative of this, I started chatting up with her.

"Kalojaam koto kore?" How much? I asked.

"Ten rupees for 100 grams." she said.

Fruit sellers always quote prices for 100 grams here possibly because it tricks the buyer into believing that they do not have to spend much. Kaalojaam, or black berries are a close favorite after mangoes and litchis, and I have never found these in the US/Germany. So when I ask for 2 kilos, her jaws drop, and she gives me a 10% discount. I never haggle for prices, something that Ma and I always keep arguing about. Ma's point is, sellers always inflate the prices because people are going to haggle. My point is, if the price sounds reasonable enough (most things do now, since my euros give me even more buying power), I do not want to haggle with a poor man who is sitting in the sun and trying hard to make a living. If one does not haggle at Pantaloons and Westside, why haggle with fruit sellers? Those 10 rupees I save is not worth the kicks one gets.

So I continue to buy fruits from her whenever I go out, and we chat up. Now, she starts to watch out for me as well. One day, she gave me good quality plastic bags for things I had bought from another place because I was not carrying a grocery bag. The other day, she gave me a handful of kalojaams for free to chew on as we continued to chat. Every time I put a few in my mouth, she would choose a few good ones and place them in my hand. Who would have imagined making a new friend at the local market over buying kalojaams?

She was thrilled when I asked her name. She was even more thrilled and blushed profusely when I asked if I could take a picture of her. So she posed nicely and gave me her best smile.

Grandma and I have forgotten to eat other things, and have been happily overdosing on kalojaams ever since, our teeth and tongues perennially violet in color now. 

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A sweet gesture

I am always drawn to places and societies where one can have real interactions with real people. Going out in Kolkata makes that happen everyday. I am headed home and get off the bus to walk some 10-15 minutes before I reach our apartment. It is extremely humid, and I am drenched in sweat, about to die of thirst. So I stop by the local sweets shop, and ask for the water jug for a sip (it is free). I don't know the owner personally. The owner not only forwards me the water jug, but also hands me a gujiya, a kind of sweet, for free. He smiles and says, "এটা খান, ভালো লাগবে।" (Have this, you will feel better).

I don't think he goes around distributing free sweets, but it is that moment, a moment when someone is dying of thirst and a kind man not only offers that, but offers something to eat as well. Your Big Bazaar and other chain stores with uniformed people working there and talking to the local customers in English will never do this for you, even if they wanted to, because there are cameras watching them and they are accountable for every rupee. My ma does not understand why I try to boycott buying from or going to malls and chain stores. I do not care to choose from ten different varieties of rice and wheat, or get that 10% discount when I purchase goods for a thousand rupees or more. I do not care about fattening the pockets of the already rich. I want human interaction. And I want my money to go to the local people. I don't just care about the product I am getting. I also care about where my money is going.

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Water we waiting for?

A disaster of the somewhat innocuous kind brought all the 12-15 odd families in our building together. Usually, we do not keep track of the ongoing of our neighbors. We nod curtly and smile if we bump into someone in the stairway. But last afternoon, the water pump malfunctioned and we lost running water. We waited until evening, but nothing. The supply of stored water was slowly running out. Late evening, ma started making a few phone calls, asking when it would be fixed. We were supposed to visit a family friend nearby, so we showed up at their place with 6-8 empty bottles to stock up on drinking water. While coming home, we saw that all the men of the building were assembled together discussing what needs to be done.

Early morning, people were ready with buckets to fill up on municipality water that stops after 8 am. This actually gave people a chance to say hi and make small talk, since everyone was queued up with a common goal. As the line was getting longer, ma went to the neighbor from the adjacent building to stock up on buckets of water (which I dutifully carried upstairs). The neighbor also invited us to come back and take a shower if the water problem was not solved. This water crises forced me to meet at everyone from the building I usually do not go out of my way to meet.

9 am. The problem is fixed. Water is back. We are back to living our normal, isolated lives, watching TV with family and getting back on the internet. No more communal gatherings with buckets in hands, chatting up with real people. We are back to chatting virtually.

Water crises is bad. But thank god we did not lose electricity or internet. I also got a good workout first thing in the morning. I always look at the brighter side.

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Old place, new things

I am not stranger to Kolkata. It annoys me every time I land at the airport and stand in line for immigration, always surrounded by a bunch of NRIs who cannot stop complaining about how slow the line is moving or how Kolkata is never going to change or flash their foreign passports to get ahead in line. Yes, the first thing I step out of the plane, I smell the warm, humid air mixed with phenyl/floor-cleaning chemicals. And that is the smell I associate with the airport, my gateway to my home. When in the US, I used to visit annually. Now from Germany, I visit almost twice a year. But every time I visit, there are certain things I relearn or unlearn. Day 1 is always the hardest, reorienting myself to a different, if not new way of doing things. It's like a switch in the brain that turns on and off. Here are some of the things that always surprise me anew in Kolkata.

1. Sweating. Every time I step out of the airport, my glasses fog. And I slowly start sweating. It's an alien feeling, since I do not sweat in Germany. Not even for a minute, unless I am working out seriously. The seasons are differentiated by the number of blankets and comforters I heap on myself, and summer means using only one instead of three. So suddenly when I am standing outside the airport, not lifting anything or working out and I start sweating, my clothes clinging to me, the feeling is very disconcerting. 

2. Roads. It takes my brain a little bit of re-programming to remember that we now drive on the left hand side of the road. It always surprises me how much smaller, bumpier, and un-geometrical the roads look. The first few times of crossing the roads without signal are scary, and I involuntarily look for the traffic lights with the red hand or the green man walking. It doesn't take long to unlearn the western ways and relearn the Indian way though. On our way from the airport this time, dad asks me if I see something different about the roads. Unmindful and still thinking about why I am sweating, I reply, "Yes, it's so much smaller and we are on the left, which is freaking me out." Dad was pointing out to how much cleaner and organized the roads now look, with road signs and all, thanks to our chief minister. His message was completely lost on me. 

3. Mosquitoes. Two days after I arrived, I woke up one morning, my right arm completely riddled with mosquito bites. In a strange way, it felt very nostalgic. Sensing a mosquito that’s sitting on my leg and killing it without seeing it is a skill that has taken me years to master. I don’t even know why we switch on the electronic mosquito repellant. I don’t think it works.

4. Lizards. I am used to staying up late. I am also used to raiding the fridge at night. Often, when I switch on the kitchen light, I see a lizard or two quickly crawl by on the floor. We have learnt to accept each other's existence. It feels assuring to know that someone else is up and scouring for food as well this late.

5. The ceiling fan. Eventually, when I am done working, I switch off the laptop and the tube light before hitting the bed. In bed, I lie on my back, looking at the silhouette of the ceiling fan moving. And I always wonder what if it falls on me? I wonder when they last serviced the fan and how well they checked the screws suspending it. Sometimes, I am afraid that my thoughts alone will change an unlikely event into a likely one. So I try to think of something else until I fall asleep. However, every time I lie down, I always wonder if I should switch it off.

6. The door bell. It’s amazing how many times the door bell rings here. In Germany, I don’t think I even have a door bell. If I am expecting someone, they just call beforehand.  There is no domestic help or newspaper person or mailman or the plumber or electrician to ring the bell.

7. Food. I am always thrilled by how much stronger fruits and vegetables smell here- garlic, ginger, onions, mangoes. My hand smells of food all day long. Back there, fruits and vegetables are four times the size, but hardly have any smell.

8. Wet bathroom floors. This is one more thing that takes me some time to get used to. The fact that there is always water on the floors. And buckets, yes. I don’t have any buckets or mugs back in Germany.

9. The domestic help. In Germany, I am the cook and I am the cleaner. I do the dishes and clean the floors. I wash my own clothes. I make my tea. Not here.

10. The clothes line. I do not have one back there. The dryer dries my clothes, although I feel so much better drying my clothes in the sunlight.

There are so many more, including experiencing extended periods of time when there could be no water or no electricity or no internet or all of the above. Electricity-wise, it is so much better than it used to be when we were children. I actually miss those one hour in the evening summer power outages when I would do nothing but lie on the terrace, looking up and admiring the night sky and the blinking airplanes while riddled with mosquito bites.

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A random day of my life in Kolkata

Somewhere between pre- and post-2014, my perception of Kolkata changed. Pre-2014, I would visit Kolkata from the USA where I drove a car and was used to a certain individualistic lifestyle. Naturally, ma and I used to spend most of our time arguing over what mode of transportation to take, sullying the joys of going out together. I refused to take the slow-moving rickety buses, the dangerously-driven autos, or even the metro. My ma does not believe in taking cabs, classifying all cab-drivers as kidnappers, and we would often stand at the bus stop arguing about this. She later grew wiser, so instead of arguing, she would suspiciously nod and agree that we should indeed take the cab, admitting that buses these days are not reliable anymore. However, as soon as we reached the main road, she would hop on a slowly oncoming bus, shrugging and telling me that no cabs were in sight. She would be standing on the footrest motioning to me by vigorously flailing her hands, "Chole aaye, chole aaye, taxi paabi na." or "Hop on, you won't find a cab." The thing is, she didn't even wait for 5 minutes for a cab to show up. I see her innocent face and I know that I have been tricked. So now I can either stand my ground in which case ma leaves in a bus and I stay where I am, or give in and take the bus. At this point, the conductor joins her too in screaming and asking me to board the bus, "Chole asun didi chole asun." I give up, take the bus, and see a broad grin of victory on ma's face. "Shona meye amar, ma'er katha shunte hoy." "Good girl, you must listen to mommy." I promise never to travel with her again.

Post-2014, I am older and wiser, somewhat. I now live in Germany and do not drive anymore. I haven't even renewed my driver's license. I take the public transportation all the time. I know that it is convenient, environmentally friendly, inexpensive, and the right thing to do. So as I board my flight to Kolkata, I tell myself that I am only taking the public transportation. No more cabs for me. If I want to see interesting people, I must take the metro. My ma has never been prouder.

So one evening, I decide to meet a friend in the opposite end of the city. Kolkata metro is fast, convenient, and connects the city north to south. But taking the metro involves walking for ten minutes to the main road, taking an auto to the station, walking under the bridge and hope that no flying missiles from moving trains of the nature of used cloth diapers or flying excreta land on me, and then taking the metro. The humidity is killing me, my clothes uncomfortably sticking to me. I haven't even bothered to put on makeup. I was wearing a light rain jacket in June even last week when I was in Germany. And now, my sluggish sweat glands are working overtime. I take the metro and luckily find a seat in the reserved "Ladies" seat. I get busy trying to read a third-grade bestseller highly vouched for by my sister that was written by a celebrity-wife who clearly did not know what to do with her time. I am trying to focus on page 2, giving it a fair shot before judging my sister. I have a long way to go. The train stops at the next station, and I see a woman walking fast out of the corner of my eye. "Chepe bosun, chepe bosun," she instructs everyone sternly. I am hearing this phrase after such a long time. It means please squeeze in a bit to make space for me, and is said twice for added emphasis.

The thing is, obesity has significantly risen in the last decade or so with the Americanization of Kolkata. The booming "shopping mall culture" is a long rant for another day. While I am old-school and more used to being invited home and fed home-cooked food, people these days prefer hanging out at malls, walking aimlessly and looking at overpriced stores, taking selfies and partaking in Subways and McDonald's. Imagine flying all the way to Kolkata to watch people overdose on American junk food with gusto while I crave for two tiny shingaras, kochuris, and some jilipis. And I continue to embarrass myself in more ways than one. Recently, when someone asked, “Acropilos jaabi? Have you been to Acropolis?" (a recently opened mall in the southern fringes of the city that I had no idea about), I proudly beamed, "Gechi to. I was there last month, that is where I lost my passport." Before this Kolkata trip, I only knew of one Acropolis, the original one in Greece.

Back to my metro rant. While eight voluptuous women easily fit in a ladies seat 10 years ago, wriggling babies and hanging bags and all, the same space can now seat seven women, and a mosquito or two. The others look at each other clueless, feigning an act of wiggling themselves to fake an act of making space for the lady. But there is hardly any space left to make. Our warrior lady is getting impatient. So she screams louder, not even bothering to mask the underlying threat in her voice with courtesy. The other women feel perturbed now. However, I decide to play cool, and instead of looking up, continue pretending to read this horrible book where the writer talks about some first-world problem of her driver not showing up on time and she having to take an auto rickshaw. There is some action going on right next to me with some elbowing, rubbing sweaty arms, and muttering expletives. The warrior lady has made some space for herself finally, all of 2 inches that can barely have her touching her bum to the seat. As if on cue, the driver slams the brakes, breaking her inertia and making her real angry. So she walks over to me, and in that little space we had for 2 mosquitoes, she seats herself. What it means is that she is half-sitting on my left thigh now. And if that is not enough, her right hand, all bare and damp in her sleeveless blouse, comes and rubs mine. I immediately forget my book and with electrifying speed, try to shrink myself to half my width, almost wincing at my physical proximity with another sweating individual (with a fiery temper). As if traveling in a stuffy, sweaty metro was not enough, I now have a woman on my lap threatening me with her "Chepe boshun bolchi kintu!" while the metro sways at speed and makes me conjure traumatic images of getting a lap dance. I am repulsed beyond imagination. I try to think of my choices, or whatever remains of them. My book is long forgotten. I look at the woman on my lap, half-sitting on me and refusing to budge. I contemplate telling her, “Chepe boshte parbo na” (I cannot squeeze in, sorry and thank you). However, I don't think I have the courage to do this. Meekly, I obey her and jiggle myself some more, and when that does not work, go stand and offer her my seat. 

After 30 minutes of standing in the crowd, my nose precariously pointed at several armpits jutting from sleeveless blouses women love to wear, I get off the train in one piece, my lap still bearing the traumatic memory of the pseudo lap-dance it had recently received. Thanks to learning yoga for one semester in grad school, I had managed to stop breathing for most of my ride. I still have an auto rickshaw to take before I can reach my destination. I am smelling of 50 shades of sweat, and I do not even know which shade is mine. I try to squeeze myself in the right extreme of the backseat of an auto. However, my ordeal is far from over. A family of man, woman, and child come running, push me aside, and grab the entire last seat of the auto before I realize what is happening. The mustachioed man with a baby face is the first one to get in. Wow! There was a time when chivalrous men used to offer the back seat to women while flanking the driver. People have taken gender equity really seriously these days. So carefully arranging my half-flowing clothes, I seat myself by the auto driver, confident about smelling something new now- perhaps hair oil. In the next twenty minutes, the auto driver becomes a reincarnation of Keanu Reeves from Matrix, squeezing his vehicle in the lanes in between speeding buses and cars, zooming through approaching traffic in T-sections, making me sit even tighter to him, much to my dismay. Given a choice between falling of an auto rickshaw on the road or sitting uncomfortably close to stranger and smelling his hair oil, I prefer the hair oil.

I get off at my destination and try to enter the mall. However, I am stopped by two female security guards who deem it proper to pat my boobs with the metal detector before letting me in. From getting a lap dance to giving one to the auto driver to having my assets patted, my friends will never know the huge price I have just paid to commute from point A to point B. Ever since, I feign a heart attack whenever someone asks me to meet them at a mall during peak traffic. If that does not work, I just tell myself that 5 Euros (my bus fare in Germany everyday) is close to 377.87 Indian rupees. So once in a while, when I am not craving for any sort of adventures on the road, I just take the cab.

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Essen?

For many years in my workplace, I have always eaten my lunch alone, and so did the others sitting in the same room. It's like everyone putting headphones and listening to their own music, in isolation. When deadlines loomed, "eating" as a verb was substituted by other action verbs. "Grabbed" a bite."Downed" some juice. Gobbled and guzzled. Nibbled and munched. Alone. Staring at the computer screen, using one hand to run data analyses or write emails, or reading news when both hands were needed.

Not in Germany. Every day at noon, the entire department gathers in the hallway. Someone starts knocking on all the doors in the corridor, reminding people it is time for lunch. Then we walk together, a crowd of 10-15 people. Not to another room, no. We step out in the sun, and walk a bus stop to the mensa (cafeteria). There, thousands of students, staff, professors, and sometimes their family gather to eat lunch. There is usually a very good selection of everything- vegetables and meat and fish and salads, at subsidized prices. We choose our food, we pay, and we sit together at a large table. We eat. We talk. We laugh. We share stories. We learn. And we eat. Not gulping mouthfuls between checking Whatsapp messages or browsing Facebook on smart phones. When you have a large group to talk to, you do not need technology to keep you company. I am often notorious for eating the slowest. So while everyone is done and I am still finishing the last few bites, everyone waits for me to finish up. No one leaves without me. 

Then, we go back to the office together, but not right back to work. Not yet. We go back to the conference room. One of us is responsible every week to brew the coffee and boil water for tea. All of us sit and drink tea or coffee. Someone is on weekly duty to provide the cookies and crackers. Even people who do not drink tea or coffee sit for a while with the group. At this time, whoever needs to get back to work is welcome to do so. Some people linger and talk ideas. Others go back.

Here, I look forward to sharing my meal every day. Since we all need to eat, why not do it together? It makes me realize the importance of stepping back, taking a break, and interacting as a group. Food is not meant to be had in isolation, a hurried affair in between finishing deadlines. This 1-1.5 hour long break everyday is not a waste of work time. It is included within the work time, to make sure people talk, communicate, share, wait for one another, and do not forget their social skills. By the way, "essen" is the German word for eating.

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Unit(ed)

The unit conversion cells in my brain have never been more active until I moved to Deutschland. There are some I never adopted in the US in the first place, so it feels comforting to revert after all these years. For example, I always understood weather or temperature in Celsius and not Fahrenheit. So when you say that 32 is a cold day and 85 is a hot day, it does not make any sense to me. For me, 0 means cold and 100 means hot. The weather channel is always set to degree C. And although I weigh things in pounds at the grocery store, I always weigh myself in kilograms because that made more sense to me. 60 was great, 100 was fatal, and anything in between was a work in progress in either direction. Weighing babies or milk in ounces confuse me even more. 

Then, there are new things I learnt in the US, like driving. So buying gas in gallons, measuring distance in miles, or speed in miles/hour makes so much more sense to me. I just had to see the number 60 to know that I was fine, or 80 to know that I should really slow down. Now, the autobahn sometimes specifies a speed of 120 (km/hour). If I did not know the unit, it would freak me out. I am relearning what it means to measure distance in kilometers or area of rooms in square meters (and not square feet). After many years, I am buying milk in liters. And weighing vegetables in kilograms. 

The mm/dd/yy has gone back to dd/mm/yy, but I see that after the first few years of instinctively writing dd/mm in the US, I am now instinctively writing mm/dd in Germany. Earlier, I was converting USD to INR and back, but now, it is a mishmash of USD to Euro, Euro to INR, INR to USD, and what not. 

And time. Here in Germany, I have meetings at 14:30, dinner at 18:30, drink coffee at 16:30, and go to bed at 21:30. There is no concept of am and pm. Even the computers show the time from a scale of 00 to 24 hours. This is something very new to me. 

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Train, no, bus of thoughts

It gets me a while to start my engines in the morning. I wake up early and all, but I have never understood how so many people work out in the morning. Between my home and the bus stop is some stretch of water, a bridge (like the foot bridge between Lake Town and Salt Lake), and a garden. When I am still walking (and waking) to catch the bus, I see so many people running and always wonder how they manage to have so much energy in the morning. 

I was thinking the same today, rubbing my eyes on my way to work. I had just started going up the bridge when I saw my bus at a distance. Being at a height gave me a vantage point to see the bus stopped at a red light. I thought no more. I sprinted at electrifying speed, running the length of the bridge and the garden, and not stopping until the driver had seen me and I was inside the bus. I got on the bus to see the entire bus staring at me. People involuntarily do that when they see someone run to catch the bus. At least I do, thinking in my head, "Will they make it? Will they make it?" So I did, and the bus started. I had no reason to run all the distance like a crazy woman. I could have taken the next one. But when you see a bus, you instinctively run. I think something is wrong if you are fit but do not feel the urge to run. My probability of getting my bus was 1/2 (since two out of four buses go to my workplace and I could not see the number from a distance). But it would have sucked to not take that chance.

I do not remember the last time I had chased a bus. The last few years in the US, I always drove to work, and never looked at bus timings or waited at bus stops. Now I do. Now, I know that buses run only once every thirty minutes after peak hours, so I organize my time accordingly. Newer habits have replaced old habits. I haven't driven in 20 months. I haven't useda cell phone in 19 months. I don’t get to eat at Chipotle unless I am in the US. A few years ago, I couldn't have imagined a life without car and cell phone, or not looking for wifi networks frantically wherever I went. Now, I am doing just fine. I am not making a judgment about "that" life versus "this" life. That life was great, and this life is great too. All I am saying is it is perfectly possible to break old habits, and transition from "that" life to "this" life without missing it much. 

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Hoping for more

The coming year(s), I hope that I find more feeds of travel, road trips, and recommendations of good books and movies. Because between books, movies, and being on the road, I could spend most of my time.

I hope for less whining and negativity, and more informative, reflective, and uplifting posts. The weather is bad. The neighbor is bad. Politicians are bad. The advisor is bad. Dilwale is bad (Okay, Dilwale WAS bad!). The roads are bad. Surely, everything cannot be bad all the time. Something good is happening somewhere, right?

I hope for more travel experiences, in newer countries and continents.

I hope for better dental health for myself. I fought tooth and nail to avoid two back-to-back root canals in one Calcutta trip. This smile you see every day comes at a huge cost.

I hope for more, and better friends. And to continue to hold on to the ones I already have. The older I am getting, the more I crave for interesting company, and interesting discussions over a cup of coffee.

I hope for discovering a new hobby, and learning a new skill. Or many new skills.

I hope for more peer-reviewed publications. I have had my fill of "I am sorry to let you know ..." emails.

I hope to get much better in German. I still struggle to understand, and be understood every day.

I hope to continue to stay away from the cellphone. 

And most importantly, my ardent wish is to get more disciplined in writing. I have so many aborted writing projects sitting at my desk right now, for lack of discipline and a person to kick my butt and get them done.

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The Visa Officer

Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction.

My day did not start well. I got a letter (in German) from the visa officer, asking me to collect my new residence permit on a particular date of the month. Only, I would not be in the country that day, and would not be able to re-enter Germany without the new residence permit. The permit exactly looks like an EAD card or a driver's license. 

Let me back up a little bit. My old permit had expired two days ago, and I needed a new one to travel outside the EU zone. When I had told my visa officer last month, she had taken note of my travel dates and assured me that she will give me a permit before I leave. For safety, she had written down something in German on an official piece of paper and stamped it. I could show that paper at the airport, and they would let me in. Just that I would feel more comfortable showing them a proper plastic laminated permit, and not something scribbled on a paper in a language I do not understand that could be accidentally chewed on by a cow. Unlike in the US, my visa is not stamped in my passport, and my permit is the only evidence that I live legally and should be allowed to re-enter Germany. Also, unlike in the US, you are assigned to a specific visa officer who handles your documents and keeps track of your whereabouts. 

I had to take help of my department head's secretary to understand the letter. After that, she had to call their office, asking for a new appointment date before I left Germany end of next week. It was a long conversation in German, that included spelling my full name at least twice. Another instance when I silently ask dad what was he thinking when he named me, and wish my name was something super short, like Tan Sen instead. Although the secretary could not get hold of the visa officer, someone else told her that they would see what they could do. It was utter chaos. My discomfort continued.

True to the German reputation for speed and efficiency, I got an email an hour later. Just one line, written in German. "Visa interview Monday, at 11 am." The ways of the Germans amuse me. Fast, efficient, but utterly German. They know I do not speak the language, yet they email me just one line, in German. Sometimes, I email them in English and they reply back in German. Anyway, I was hugely relieved that I would have my interview in 3 days. As usual, the secretary wrote down on my appointment letter using a pencil what all documents I need to bring for Monday. 

I leave work early, and go to the grocery store. Tomorrow is a public holiday, and everything would be closed. Armed with bags full of chicken, vegetables, and fruits, I wait for the bus back home. I look at someone standing in front of me at the bus stop and she looks back. We frown, and then, both of us burst out laughing. It is my visa officer waiting for the same bus.

My officer, although German, is not White. She is not Turkish either, and I have wondered for a year what she is (I still don't know). To me, she looks hardcore Malayali, although given her name and last name, it is not possible. We are so amused to see one another, especially since morning, I have been making frantic phone calls and she has been emailing me. We board the bus together and find a seat. We still cannot stop laughing. She asks me about my upcoming international trips, and when I would be back in the country. It is just like making small talk with the random Sharma uncle or Sen mashima in the bus. I take out my appointment letter from my bag and ask her once more what documents I need to bring. She simplifies things and asks me to bring just my passport and old residence permit. We wish each other a happy weekend. She tells me, "See you Monday". I get off the bus and walk home, armed with my grocery, a wide grin on my face. What are the odds, I wonder, that in a city with a population of a quarter million people, I bump into my visa officer out of the blue?

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